


First

by bonebo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:14:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the game, before the burnout, before he was anything more than a name on a computer screen…</p><p>He was yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First

He was yours first.

Back before your little group got all hunky-dory with the idea of genocide, back when you all were younger and he was still a nobody with no friends, messy hair, and a mouthful of too many fucked up teeth—he was yours. He filled your first quadrant when you were but seven sweeps old—you’d never guessed that you’d be flushed for someone before you were pitch, but hey, happy accidents happen—and he told you that you had done the same.

(You still remember the first night that you had coaxed him into your block, and if the quivers that had rocked his lanky body and the flush of his skin beneath your lips had been anything to go by, he hadn’t been a liar.)

He listened to you practice guitar and he offered his obligated compliments and weak applause, only to have them turn sincere when he first heard the song you wrote about him—he tried to sing along after a while, parroting the words as they fell from your lips, but the call and echo was so horribly out of key that you had to stop playing to lie back and laugh.

(He ignored you for fifteen minutes after that, but the makeup sex was worth it.)

Then he showed you his skateboard, and you couldn’t lie, you were spiteful and not impressed; but at the first complicated move he busted out, some kind of trick that had the board over his head and his body in the air, you had to admit it was a little cool. You’d always had a thing for the aloof skater boys anyway.

(But of course you didn’t tell him that.)

It was six months into the relationship when he first caught you in your block, peach-colored paint smeared across your forehead and your fins taped down. You whipped around to stare at him, eyes wide and artificially mutated, white contacts with blue irises that you saved up for months to buy—you expected a firestorm, you expected judgments and abandonment and his scorn running in tandem with isolation yet again.

Instead he slowly came over and wiped the paint off your skin with his shirt, and pulled the tape away to release your fins, stroking one gently as he wrapped you up in his arms.

 _“Cronus,”_ he said, voice sweet as honey and with a warmth just as thick; you shuddered, hiding your face in his chest and feeling his claws scritch lightly at your horns. _“You don’t have to do this to yourself. You’re perfect as you are—you don’t need to change.”_

(You remember the words exactly.)

After that you’d both been closer than ever before. He told you the story of his ancestor—not that you particularly cared, because you’d never put much stock in the fables of the past except to glorify your bloodline—and he spilled his darkest fears and most hidden secrets to you, tangled up in the darkness of his block with his head on your chest. You listened quietly and held him tighter when his voice went weak, and you fell asleep so wrapped up in each other that when morning came you were content to lie there for another twenty minutes just to listen to him breathe.

(His heart beat in sync with yours, and you swore that in that one moment magic was real.)

But then he started the game.

That stupid, stupid game.

Suddenly you lost your appeal—you weren’t good enough for him, he found better, cooler company. There was no more of him showing up at your door unannounced, that sheepish toothy grin on his face, his voice a little embarrassed: _“Want to hang out?”_ Instead, it was you going to his hive to find it empty, pestering him—and it started to feel literal—in an attempt to glean a precious fifteen minutes of contact from him, drag him away from his husktop and the stupid video games that Pyrope had sucked him into. It started to feel like work to get him to see you, to spend time with you, and even with you both sitting in your block the guitar you played sounded dull. His voice was flat as he hollowly praised your new songs.

(Something uneasy curled and coiled in your gut, demanding attention and thought that you didn’t want to give.)

Four songs later, his eyes were guilty as he looked up at you, voice somber and quiet: _“Cronus…we need to talk.”_ You shook your head, denial curling your fingers tight around the neck of the guitar as you told him to wait just one more song, eyes down on the strings feigning focus to cover up your fear—still he spoke, of a party you weren’t invited to and things he hadn’t meant to feel, and before he could say another word your lips were desperate on his, muffling the betrayal pouring from his throat.

(He tasted of chalky face paint and, this close, smelt like faded perfume. You swore to never write a song about him again.)

He broke away first, eyes wide as he started to blurt out everything, and in half a heartbeat you were on your feet, anger flared, voice cold rage as you ordered him out—out of your hive, your life, your quadrants. Out of everything. He obeyed with no fuss or complaint and it was only after the door had closed without him glancing back at you once that the reality of it all sank in, he was over you, and before you even knew what you were doing you were storming through the hive and seeing red.

(Sorrow was an avalanche of good memories and dirty snow, and as it threatened to swallow you whole you had to arm yourself with something harder, sharper, stronger, just to survive.)

White-hot rage curled in your gut and you couldn’t stop yourself from screaming, grabbing the nearest thing—the guitar you’d played for him countless nights, what seemed like an eternity ago—and slamming it into the wall, watching the wood splinter and the strings snap and breathing shallowly through clenched teeth. He’d told you once that he loved listening to you play.

(You didn’t care.)

The hive became a wrecking ground, nothing within it strong enough to withstand your wrath; doors slammed, glass fell shattered upon the floor, anything even resembling a Gemini symbol was grabbed and stripped and destroyed. Photographs, gifts, everything that could even possibly remind you of that nooksucking scumbag—and even some that couldn’t—was torn away, until all that was left was a trail of destruction and no sort of memento of Mituna Captor.

(You didn’t care.)

After the fury faded, you stood panting in the middle of your hive, eyes wide as you stared bleakly at the wreckage surrounding you—a mix of glass, wood, streaks and splatters of violet that were either blood or tears. Coming down from the emotion, you realized that your arms hurt, you’d cut your hands, your legs were shaking. There was wetness on your cheeks.

(You didn’t care.)

You sank down to the floor, cradling your head in your hands, grabbing at your horns and pulling hard enough to hurt.

(You didn’t care.)

(You didn’t care.)

(You didn’t care.)


End file.
